


your blade (it might be too sharp)

by pleasantlydemented



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angry Sex, Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5400827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasantlydemented/pseuds/pleasantlydemented
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>songfic. inspired by "elastic heart" by sia. </p><p>one shot. au. no za. bethyl angst. experimental. beth and daryl have a past, and it's not exactly a happy one, but they can't just let go. so, instead, they play games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your blade (it might be too sharp)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what this is. 
> 
> it happened somewhere between me working on watch me bleed (until i can't breathe) and prevaricate and wouldn't leave me alone. and i cannot fight it. 
> 
> experimental. one shot. angsty-ish. background is not fully developed but implied. 
> 
> xx

your blade (it might be too sharp).

 

She knows he’s here. Doesn’t have to see him. Doesn’t have to hear his voice. 

She feels him. 

But, just for gratuitous affirmation, she slides her eyes across the dimly-lit bar - packed full with sweaty bodies vibrating with the music - and they land on him. 

_And another one bites the dust._

She laughs. Humorlessly. Quietly but deeply, so deeply that it reaches the pit of her stomach after bouncing through each chamber of her heart like a ping-pong ball. 

He’s got his lips locked on the mouth of some young girl. Younger than her. Faker, too, but what does that matter?

She told herself long ago that it doesn’t matter. 

_You did not break me._

And he looks like he always does. Shaggy hair. Face that hasn’t seen a razor or, probably, a mirror in several days. Smoke curling up around his head like some kind of halo originating from the lit cigarette that he’s holding dangerously close to the girl’s bleach-blonde hair.

And she wonders faintly why he always goes for blondes. 

To hurt her more, she assumes. 

And that’s fine. 

Because she goes for rough-looking guys with tattoos marring the skin overlying their thick, muscled arms. Men who drive motorcycles like they don’t give a fuck if they crash and burn right then. Maybe they don’t. 

She doesn’t like them. Not much. She might fuck them, if she feels like it. Not often. Never more than once. She doesn’t feel anything. Not anymore. Not since him. 

And fuck him, because his blue eyes are locked on hers now, and he’s swiveled his flavor of the night around so that her perky little ass – clad in skin-tight leather pants, because _of course she’s wearing leather pants_ – is directed right at her. And he reaches his hand down and squeezes one ass cheek, narrowing his eyes at her. Challenging her, maybe. 

_Well, I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart._

She arches an eyebrow and takes a long pull of the beer she’s holding, keeping her eyes on his. Blue on blue. Ice and fire. 

She won’t look away; that’s what he’s hoping for. Hoping to get to her. Like always. 

Because they’ll never stop fucking with each other. Hurting each other. 

_I wanted to fight this war without weapons_

And he must be bored, because now he’s rubbing a hand slowly down the girl’s spine – so slowly. And Beth can see the tattoo on the dorsum of his left hand. The small but dark marking of words that mirrors the one on her right hand.

Which is probably what he wants her to see. 

So she raises her right hand up and, along with it, her middle finger. Shoots him a coy smile, the defiant one, the one that makes him as hard as a diamond under his dark-washed jeans. Makes his heart thump under the black sleeveless shirt he’s wearing. 

And then she spots a guy she knows. 

And she follows him outside. Waves a hand dismissively at Daryl. At the game he plays. At the game she plays with him. 

_But you won’t see me fall apart._

“Got a smoke?” She can’t remember the man’s name. 

He’s big. Burly. Hair is somewhere between red and brown. He has a motorcycle. A mustache that creates handlebars along the sides of his mouth and then connects with the rest of the coarse hair that covers most of his face. 

“Sure thing, babe,” he smiles. It’s creepy. He’s old. But she’s old enough to know better. And as she takes the cigarette he offers, she’s only wondering if she’s fucked him before. Hoping she hasn't. 

He lights it for her. Reminds her that he’s _Abe_ and they _hung out a few weeks ago_. And she sees the hair of his mustache turn upward and into a smirk on one side as his eyebrows wiggle like he’s some fucking cartoon. 

She leans up against the wall of the brick building and takes a long drag. Exhales quietly and tries to remember why she even came here tonight. 

_And I wanted it, I wanted it bad._

“Really?”

Daryl's voice is sudden and only half-unexpected and gravel and silk and shards of glass. She keeps her eyes on the ground. 

“Slummin’ it hard, Greene,” he mutters. 

“Not the only one.” Her voice is disinterested. 

Abe’s still hovering. Acting as though he’s a part of this. But it’s only her. Her and him. Her and him and the people they unknowingly employ to play background characters in their ongoing saga. 

“What’s it to ya?” He leans his back against the wall several feet away from her, to her right. So that if she lifts her eyes just barely from the ground she’ll be able to see the tattoo on his hand, which is facing the one on hers. 

“Ain’t nothin’,” she responds, exhaling a thick cloud out the side of her mouth. In his direction. 

“This guy botherin’ ya?” Abe steps in. Puffed chest. Pocket knife in hand, like it’d even do anything remotely lethal to anyone, and that's assuming he knows how to use it. 

“Who the fuck’re you?” Daryl now, stepping forward. Always looking for a fight. Not just with her. Mostly with her, but sometimes for her – and that’s what perpetuates the constant state of chaos in her mind.

“Beth’s friend.” Abe’s stepping forward, and Beth mostly doesn’t care. She lifts her head to watch the potential altercation, but she’s growing tired. Bored. Takes another drag. 

“Yea? Willin’ to bet I know her better’n you, stupid fuck. Step back if ya know what’s good for ya,” Daryl hisses through gritted teeth. And he's probably trying not to get kicked out of this establishment like the many others from which he was now _banned for life_. And those incidents hadn’t _always_ involved Beth. But mostly. 

_Let’s be clear, I’ll trust no one._

Abe turns his head to Beth and she shrugs. She’s not going to deny it. 

“Knew ya’s a stupid bitch. Wouldn’t put out even after I took ya ridin’ ‘round. Even after I fed ya drinks all night, kept ya stocked up on smokes. Fuckin’ bitch. Didn’t even remember me.” 

Abe’s large body looms over hers as he growls directly into her face. 

And Beth’s only response is a relieved sigh - that she didn’t actually fuck this one. Because his attitude sucks and his breath smells like ass. 

And then Daryl’s lunging forward, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. His arm shoots up like a bolt of lightning and one of his large hands is gripping Abe’s face with a force that makes her slam her back flat up against the brick wall behind her. 

Daryl works the cigarette around with his tongue so that it’s dangling out one side of his mouth. 

“Keep your fuckin’ face outta hers. Hands off o’ her. Really wonderin’ why she wouldn’t fuck ya? Look at her an' then look at yourself, ya piece o' shit.” Daryl’s voice is low and threatening. And they’re right in front of her, the two fucking idiots. 

She almost laughs because she’s sure he’s thinking that he’s some knight in shining armor. That he’s doing her some favor. He may be doing the exact opposite, really. 

Daryl releases Abe’s face, and it’s more of a shove than a release. And she sees the wheels in Abe’s mind turning and spinning, just for a moment, before he backs away and disappears in the darkness of the street that stretches out in front of them. 

“Never gonna learn to take care o’ yourself, are ya?” He grumbles it, and she’s well aware that he’s addressing her. 

She flicks her cigarette out into the road and turns, preparing to walk to her car so she can leave. So she can go back to her apartment and pretend that she didn’t come here looking for him and all of the wicked ways he fucks with her mind. All of the wicked ways she fucks with him. How much she likes it and hates it. 

But he grabs her by the arm, stopping her in her tracks. And she twists her body back toward his. 

“Let me _go_ ,” she whispers. And it’s quiet but harsh; she hears it. But she doesn’t necessarily want to cause a scene. Doesn’t have the energy. 

“The fuck’s wrong with ya?” He asks it like they’re best friends. Like they’re not totally warped individuals who live just to hurt each other. 

“Tired. Scared my man off. Goin’ home.” 

He keeps his grip on her arm and tosses his cigarette out into the street with his free hand. 

“Can come with ya. If ya want me to?” 

She’s screaming _no_ in her head but feels it nodding. Like there’s nothing she can do. And maybe there isn’t. 

_But your blade, it might be too sharp._

They’re in her apartment, naked, before she can do anything to stop it. 

And his mouth is ravaging hers. He’s animalistic, growling and biting and swearing and rubbing himself against her. 

And she’s not exactly submissive. She’s angry. Biting and growling and scratching his skin. 

It’s been a while since they’ve gotten to this part of the game. Probably why she seeks him out so often lately. Probably why, if she’s not seeking for him, he’s prowling for her. 

And they avoid it as much as they can, now. 

He’s knocking shit off of the countertop in her bathroom, scattering all her shit onto the floor. She hears the sound of glass shattering, of tubes of lip gloss splashing into the water of the toilet. 

He lifts her up and her ass lands on the cold surface of the counter and she allows herself a moment to soak herself and the remaining pieces of herself – of her life – in the sight of him, all tanned skin and scars and tattoos and ridges of flexed muscle as he scoots her forward so that he can shove himself inside of her. 

And she shouldn’t enjoy this part. This means she’s lost another round of the game. Maybe it means he’s lost, too, because his eyes are glazed but they’re looking right into hers. Right through hers. Right into _her_ , like they always do. Like they always have. 

He thrusts and she cries out – in pain, in pleasure, in frustration, in disgust, she doesn’t know. Hasn’t ever known. 

But he knows just how to fuck her, just where to touch her. And it’s nothing that she ever actually had to show him. Not even when they did this for the first time. When it wasn’t just a game. When it wasn’t her, young and afraid and running away from any semblance of commitment. When it wasn’t him, hurt and pissed and rejected and seeking revenge like it’s the only thing that keeps his damaged heart beating. 

_I’m like a rubber band until you pull too hard._

He presses a thumb to her clit, circles slowly at first and gradually increases the pace and pressure, just the way she’d do it herself if she were alone. And she’d be imagining him even if he weren’t actually here.

He’s still thrusting into her and his head is on her shoulder, breath on her neck and he’s mouthing muffled words. Words she doesn’t have to try and decipher, because they’re the same words he always says when they get to this particular point. 

_I love you. Please, Beth. I love you._

And she knows she mumbles them back in between the small but sharp bites she’s taking out of his shoulder and chest. It’s mindless, really. 

She comes hard and fast and suddenly. Pulsing heat rushes out of her and onto him like the slow roll of lava sliding down the side of a volcano. 

She’s still whimpering when she feels his thrusts become shaky and uneven and jerky and hard and almost painful. Still feels hot tears rolling down her cheeks when he mutters “fuck” and releases himself inside of her with a series of long, deep moans and hissed curses. 

She’s leaning back against the mirror above the counter. He leans into her, pressing his forehead against hers lightly. Lines his left hand up with her right one on the empty, white surface next to her sweaty, pale thigh. 

She looks down and he’s studying them, the words scrawled against their skin. They don’t say much, the tattoos. No one except for them would or could understand them. They were simple - a confession of love that’d been so intense and real yet so entirely surreal that they’d both decided on getting permanent reminders. Reminders that it’d happened. Something to connect them. To keep them connected. 

And if there was one vow neither of them would ever break – those inked words would remain on their skin, faded but true, for the rest of time. 

_It’s hard to lose a chosen one._

He sleeps with her that night. In her bed. Spoons her. Holds her hand. Kisses her face. Tells her he loves her and she repeats it to him – and it sounds robotic, even to her, but it’s true. She does. Always will. But she hates him with equal measure. And she knows that feeling is mutual, too. The lines are blurred. They have been for some time. 

She doesn’t sleep. Not because she’s not tired. She’s exhausted. Not because she doesn’t trust him; she trusts him more than anyone she has left in this world. 

Like the tattoo, she wants the memory. Another one. One of too many. One of more to come, if they didn’t figure this out. It was a cycle they were doomed to keep repeating. Maybe forever. 

_And I will stay up through the night._

_And let’s be clear, I won’t close my eyes._

And in the morning, when she feels him stir briefly before he fully wakes, she presses a kiss to his hand. Says a silent prayer that maybe next time they won’t want to hurt each other. It feels good – the anger, the teasing, the harsh words – but she wants it to end. It’s been years. It’s felt like decades. 

She closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe evenly. He dresses quietly and walks around the bed to face her – she can feel the puffs of his breaths against her face. 

“I love you,” he murmurs. And she feels his hand, feather-light, trail down her face. 

She hears the groaning of the door to her apartment as it opens and then closes moments later. But she keeps her eyes closed. Tries to dream – consciously or otherwise – about a time when they weren’t _this_. 

And she lets herself have a moment of hope. 

_And I know that I can survive._

_I’ll walk through fire to save my life._


End file.
